The International Red Star Hostel

            I look rather handsome in my photo taken shortly after the Carnation Revolution. The card says I'm Antonio da Souza, and that I was a horticulturalist with the council of Setúbal.

            When I arrived last week the Russian looked me up and down like I was some kind of tramp. But after she saw my ID, I was shown to a bed in the front room for seven Euros a night. The International Red Star Hostel is light and reasonably clean in spite of the people who live here. Señora Raskalnekov takes care of everything. Apart from a leg of ham that had been hanging on the wall, attracting flies, for longer than anyone could care to remember.

            Señora Raskalnekov is blonde, shapely, and tainted only by traces of a few varicose veins on her legs. She must be about forty-five but you can't ask a lady that sort of question. Not that she's a real lady. Adrian pays her frequent visits. I'm sure he could afford a better place to live than this. If I was well qualified like him, I wouldn't be sharing. But I suppose Señora Raskalnekov is compensation.

            Last night, she was showing Adrian her new nativity scene. Only the Lord knows why she had to turn the music up and keep him there so long examining such an unseasonable item. I put the lights out and tried to ignore the braying of the donkey and the rocking of the baby in the manger. On the opposite side, away from the noisy nativity play, the Georgians were having a marital dispute. The argument eventually died out and the voice of the male stopped buzzing like flies on the ham. Probably just as well I couldn't understand what they were saying. I'm not even sure where the hell Georgia is, and their language is about as much use to the rest of us as a spade with a hole in it.

            Fortunately, the Georgians didn't stay long at the hostel. They rose early, shuffled past my sofa and out onto the balcony where they stood blowing smoke into the street. The view isn't anything to write home about but then neither is Tiblisi. I got up, put on jeans and sandals. The Georgians don't understand a word of Spanish. Señora Raskalnekov tells me Russian causes them some difficulties. But they nod, smile and give away cigarettes. They can afford it due to their involvement with some cartel or other. Not any old former Soviet citizen has enough put aside for plane tickets to Spain. I nipped my cigarette halfway down and saved it for later while the Georgians flicked their stubs into the street below. It's not the done thing in a bourgeois city like this. But what can you expect from ex-communist peasants?

            I bade them farewell and went for a walk through the old town. The narrow streets around Força were decorated with straw, petals and horseshit. My stroll was brought to an abrupt halt by a crowd gathering before a yellow barrier. There followed a discussion between two English speakers who seemed to own the rights to the street. I noticed that occasional glances were being sent in my direction as they talked. Then one of them came over, took me aside, and explained in Spanish that they could do with my help. A price was negotiated and the barrier opened. I climbed the steps leaving a crowd of onlookers clapping and cheering in my wake.

            To be perfectly frank, making a film was not the most exciting experience of my life, though I did meet Dustin Hoffman. I was given a wide-brimmed hat and old gypsy rags. My teeth had to be blackened. In spite of the years that had passed since the demise of Salazar, I was still way too handsome for the role. For the most part the job entailed standing around doing nothing. That doesn't come naturally to a grafter like me. The bigwigs waved cameras around and argued with Hoffman over trivialities. Finally, I had to shout and pretend to fight with a pitchfork. Then I was sent on my way with a thank you in the form of a twenty Euro note.

            In all honesty, I would prefer to do some good old-fashioned gardening. I don't think much of the people but this is a lush city and there's horticulture in the air down at the John Lennon Gardens. Though why the council named a park after a dead and over-rated English singer is beyond me.

            There was an African planting rosemary in the gardens. I asked if he knew of any jobs going spare. He told me in limited Spanish that I'd have to speak to the foreman who had gone for a beer somewhere. What a waste of space the lot of them. Yet, guys like this are walking into jobs. That's how things are. Same goes for Germany where companies are falling over each other to employ Turks. I hope to find more rewarding work soon but twenty Euros covers the rent for a couple of days and I had enough left over to treat myself to a carton of Don Simon.

            When I got back to the International Red Star Hostel a party was in full swing. Señora Raskalnekov's son was dancing with the only Spanish resident; a young girl from the plains of Castile-Leon who works in a fashion store. She was wearing a short brown suede skirt, low-cut pink top and thigh length boots. I say they were dancing but I'll explain further just in case you have a tango or foxtrot in mind. The noise from the stereo sounded like lathes and drills and hammers working ninety to the dozen in a Stalinist factory. Zara was moving spasmodically to this industrial grind and every so often her skirt fluttered up to reveal a thong as red as the Soviet Army. Young Raskalnekov clearly approved and shouted to me in Spanish, "Hey, Portuguese Antonio, how's your only friend, Don Simon?".

            These Russians could drink but they weren't funny with it.

            Señora Raskalnekov was locked in a long embrace with Adrian in the kitchen. When I entered, they got up and left with the Russian lady towering on high heels. She led the Englishman out with the words, "Follow me to my castle, Sire Robin Hood". I somehow fell asleep at the kitchen table without finishing the Don Simon.

            The buzz of the fridge woke me up early. The Georgians were on their way to Alicante, having taken the leg of cooked ham and some of the flies south. The industrial music had finished its shift. I returned to the front room, which was black as a mineshaft. Young Raskalnekov and Zara had exhausted each other on the sofa and were hidden under the duvet. Adrian came creeping out of Señora Raskalnekov's room after a performance of A Night at the Opera. He speaks Spanish pretty well, so we had a chat while watching a rerun of a Champions League game on TV. I told him about the time I got free tickets to go and see Bayern play in Munich when I was Franz Beckenbauer's gardener. Adrian looked at me disbelievingly. Nobody appreciates a hard working Portuguese any more.

            Adrian went to his room as soon as Constantinople came in. Little wonder, but as the front room was my sleeping quarters I had nowhere else to go. Constantinople sits down, reaches for the remote and begins to watch some action movie. I'm not sure why as he always prefers to listen to his own monologues.

            "Bad day, Portuguese, bad day. Lost a lot of money on the fruit machines. Big losses. But some you win and some you lose. Tomorrow's another day. I hope it will be better than this one. Fucking wife still won't let me see my daughter. My daughter, Portuguese! My own flesh and blood. I live in this shithole of a town, where there's nothing to do except eat out in the same old square and think of the day when I can see my daughter. You got any children, Portuguese? Not that you know of, eh. Hits you right here in the heart. Every morning I wake up, work long days, drive a van to Barcelona and you know what? Work is fun. Meeting people takes my mind off my precious daughter and the slut that gave birth to her. But don't you worry. You've got an easy life, Portuguese, with no children. I'm going to see my lawyer again tomorrow. He says he'll get me access. In the meantime, better not to think about it too much I know? You ever been to Valencia? A lot more going on than there is in this dive. Nice place. Lively streets. Smiley happy people saying 'Hi'. There are better places than Spain, you know. I wouldn't be here if I could get a visa for Germany or England. You ever been abroad, Portuguese? Oh, I forgot. You are abroad. This is exotic for you, eh? Japan, I tell you, that's the place to be. That Englishman, Adrian, must be crazy living here when he could be over there. The English are lucky. They don't know they were born. They can go work anywhere. But me? It's not easy for us Turks to get visas. Even you, Portuguese. You could try Germany or England. You were in Germany? Fighting over there, were you? Yeah, but it's changed a lot since Hitler's day. You should see it now. I'm thinking of buying a few BMW's in Germany and bringing them down here to sell. You can get a good price for German cars. Well, don't keep me up Portuguese. I've got a busy day ahead. Nothing but shit on TV."

            Young Turk. Wish I still had that pitchfork.

Steve Porter

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